When a song took us home

 Shraddha Jain’s playful retelling of what Mile Sur Mera Tumhara meant to us is riotously funny—but somewhere between the bursts of laughter, it pries open the sepia-toned reels of our childhood. With a single quip, she transports us back to those grainy Doordarshan afternoons, when the static hum preceded the broadcast, the television gave off the faintly warm scent of heated circuits, and the first notes of that familiar melody felt like a gentle hand on the shoulder of a young nation still learning to dream together.

We were children then, living in a time when the future was still an unopened parcel—mysterious, thrilling, and faintly intimidating. Success was measured in modest currencies: a full tiffin box (a mark of abundance that meant you could share bites with friends), the occasional treat at Balan’s Canteen in Delhi Kannada School—where the main attraction was a limp, petrified dosa, utterly unappealing by today’s standards, but a king’s feast to us then—a bottle of Rasika, a bicycle whose bell actually worked, and the prized Rs. 12.30 DTC all-route pass that promised the city as your playground.

In the midst of this innocent arithmetic of happiness came Mile Sur Mera Tumhara, not with pomp or proclamation, but with the soft persuasion of melody, quietly stitching us into the larger fabric of belonging. Every face on screen was a colossus of their field: musicians, athletes, actors, icons whose very presence felt like a medal pinned upon our collective chest. Yet they were human, approachable, familiar, like neighbours we’d never met but always known.

And it wasn’t alone. The airwaves then were peppered with cultural companions, advertisements like Hamara Bajaj, which sang not of products but of pride, and the hauntingly beautiful Bela Gulab Juhi Champa Chameli from the National Film Development Corporation, which could make even the most restless child pause and watch in wide-eyed wonder. Together, these moments didn’t just entertain, they nurtured a sense of shared identity, a national joie de vivre so tender yet so stirring, the kind of exhilaration that blooms only once in a generation, and perhaps never again.

For a fleeting moment, Shraddha Jain has let us live that childhood again—to remember not only the song but the time and the tender dream it carried. And for that, we owe her our thanks.

🎥 Watch the video here

On Women’s Day , 08 Mar 2025 

The Silent Pillar 

Men may lead the families they are born,

Guiding forth with voice and name.

Yet women shape the home each morn,

A quiet force, a steadfast flame.

They weave the bonds, both strong and true,

Through whispered care and unseen hands.

They build the walls, they shape the view,

Yet few will see where mother stands.

Far from the tree, never falls the acorn,

It grows, embraced in love’s warm frame.

Yet roots run deep where hearts are sworn,

And mothers bear both joy and pain.

Through sacrifice, their strength is spun,

A fortress held with tender grace.

The work unpraised, the praise undone,

Yet love still lingers in its place.

For though the world may claim its kings,

Its thrones and crowns and mighty call,

The ones who shape the home of things

Are those most seldom seen at all.

Happy Women’s day to all the lovely women in the group

Sweet Talk: Sharkara to Sugar

The beguiling story of sugar traces back to the ancient plains of India, where the discovery of crystalline sweetness forever altered human taste and trade. The first documented evidence of sugar production appears in India around the 4th century BCE, where it was known as śarkarā in Sanskrit—a word that evocatively suggests both “gravel” and “sweetness,” due to the resemblance of sugar crystals to tiny pebbles. The innovation of crystallizing sugarcane juice, a feat of culinary alchemy, turned India into the primordial sugar-bowl, enticing cultures far and wide with this novel delicacy.

As Indian traders and scholars journeyed to the Arab world, śarkarā found itself a new home and a slightly altered nomenclature, becoming sukkar in Arabic. This adaptation moved seamlessly across linguistic and geographic boundaries, embedding itself in Greek as sakkharon and ultimately reaching Latin as succarum. With this, the foundational sounds and essence of the word wove their way into Western European tongues, where succarum transmuted over centuries into the English term we know today: sugar.

But sugar’s transformation was far from over. India’s original brown, unrefined sugar—what we might today call gur or jaggery—was taken by travelers and traders to ancient China. There, in the Middle Kingdom, the sugar refining process was elevated to a delicate art, giving the world its first taste of fine, white sugar. From this Chinese refinement came the Hindi and Urdu term chini, derived directly from the Chinese name for this now ubiquitous substance. The term subtly underscores the origins of white sugar in Chinese innovation, an etymological relic of cross-cultural culinary evolution.

With Diwali approaching, India’s deep-rooted love for sweetness reaches an extraordinary crescendo. Over the three-day Diwali weekend, Indians are estimated to consume as much sugar as the world does in an entire month. This astonishing statistic underscores sugar’s centrality to celebration in Indian culture and the enduring bond between sweetness and festivity, a testament to traditions passed down for millennia.

Thus, what began as Indian śarkarā, through a journey marked by linguistic morphing and culinary refinement, became an ingredient and word of global significance, universally recognizable yet regionally distinct. It serves as a testament to the sweetness of shared human endeavor, and how a simple crystalline substance could bridge diverse cultures and span millennia.

Shake Your Booty :A Retro Reverie

In a time when bell-bottoms were fashionable and vinyl was the pinnacle of audio fidelity, my father's Philips EL 3302 tape recorder reigned supreme. This venerable gadget, a masterpiece of pre-digital ingenuity, housed a collection of self-recorded tapes that were nothing short of aural gold. My father's eclectic assembly featured the luminaries of Indian classical music—Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, Kumar Gandharva, Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, and DV Paluskar, to name a few. His method of recording was delightfully quaint: he would place the recorder in front of another tape player, creating a charmingly lo-fi soundscape that transformed our living room into a concert hall.

Yet, amidst this pantheon of musical greats, one tape held a unique charm. It was a recording of the legendary movie *Sholay*, complete with its dialogue and soundtrack, and a bonus track that went something like "Shake, Shake, Shake…". At the innocent age of eight, my appreciation for Indian classical music was as developed as a caterpillar in a cocoon. However, this mysterious song piqued my curiosity. With my limited English vocabulary, I deciphered the lyrics to mean "Shake, Shake, Shake…shake your two legs."

In those days, devoid of television, my imagination painted a vivid picture of a white-suited man vigorously shaking his legs to the infectious rhythm. This whimsical misinterpretation became my personal anthem, one I would hum with nonchalant abandon, blissfully unaware of the song's true meaning.

Fast forward to a few days ago. My colleagues and I, braving the incessant Bengaluru rain, decided to take refuge in a quaint restaurant for a coffee break. As fate would have it, the restaurant's sound system began to play none other than the fabled "Shake, Shake, Shake…" tune. Nostalgia washed over me like a monsoon deluge, and I found myself singing along with the fervor of a long-lost reunion. However, my lyrical rendition seemed as harmonious as a cat in a dog kennel.

Curiosity, that relentless beast, led me to consult the omniscient oracle of our age—the internet. To my astonishment, I discovered the song was "Shake Your Booty" by KC and the Sunshine Band. The lyrics, far from the innocuous "Shake your two legs," were an exuberant exhortation to "Shake your booty." 

Reflecting on the myriad occasions I had unwittingly performed my erroneous version, I couldn't help but chuckle. Imagine the bemused expressions of my contemporaries who undoubtedly knew the correct lyrics. As the great philosopher Socrates once said, "I know that I know nothing," and boy, did I embody that sentiment. It was, in retrospect, a rather unflattering moment, highlighting the perils of clinging too fervently to childhood memories without subjecting them to scrutiny.

As I have often mused, memories are a cruel gift. They possess the dual power to delight and deceive, to comfort and confound. Perhaps there is wisdom in allowing some memories to remain untouched, preserving the innocence with which we first embraced them. As Mark Twain so aptly put it, "When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not." Indeed, in the end, it is not the accuracy of our recollections that matters, but the joy and wonder they inspire within our hearts.

In the spirit of humor and reflection, I leave you with this thought: "Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans" (Allen Saunders). So, here's to the innocence of our youth, the charm of our misconceptions, and the timeless joy of a good old-fashioned mix-up.

Serendipitous Reverence: A Journey to the Six-Faced Temple of Lord Shanmukha

This morning's escapade whisked me away to an intriguing temple dedicated to Lord Shanmukha, also known as Kartikeya, the deity of war and victory. This temple isn't your everyday place of worship; it boasts a towering gopuram adorned with six faces of Lord Shanmukha. For months, I've driven past this behemoth on the NICE Road, its imposing presence making me feel like I had a divine watchdog keeping tabs on my punctuality. Today, fate, with a mischievous grin, decided to unveil its secrets when a dear friend invited me to his son's thread ceremony held in a hall right next to this temple.

Now, let's dive into a bit of mythology. Kartikeya, born from the fiery sparks of Shiva's third eye, was destined to defeat the demon Tarakasura. His six heads, each more impressive than the last, symbolize wisdom, detachment, strength, fame, wealth, and divine power. Think of him as the original multitasker, keeping an eye on everything like the ultimate security camera system. With such a setup, no wonder he’s revered for his vigilance!

Interestingly, this wasn't my first brush with Lord Shanmukha. On a memorable trip to Thailand, I found him being worshipped at the Wat Yannawa temple in Bangkok. Even deities, it seems, appreciate a good international fanbase.

So there I was, finally standing before the architectural marvel I'd ogled from afar. The gopuram was every bit as grand up close, with each of Shanmukha's faces seemingly giving me a knowing look, perhaps questioning my dedication to timely office arrivals. Slightly intimidated? Absolutely. But the serene atmosphere, punctuated by rhythmic chants and the gentle clanging of temple bells, quickly worked its magic.

Reflecting on today's experience, I realized divine curiosity often leads to the most unexpected places. This temple, with its awe-inspiring gopuram, isn’t just an architectural feat but also a beacon of spiritual solace. Today, it also answered my daily commuter questions, turning my curiosity into a full-fledged divine encounter.

As I left, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the serendipity of it all. From a curious commuter to a reverent visitor, today's journey blended humor, spirituality, and a touch of the divine. Now, I look forward to my daily drives with a renewed sense of connection to the majestic six-faced sentinel standing guard over the NICE Road. Maybe tomorrow, I'll even get a nod of approval from one of those six heads for making it to work on time.

Sands of Fortune: A Sheikh in AI's Clothing

Since my youth, I've been captivated by the lavish lifestyles of Arabian sheikhs, adorned with inexhaustible coffers, opulent cars, private jets, and gilded luxuries. Recalling my childhood summers in Mandya, where we'd venture to our grandparents' home, memories flood back of my grandfather's cherished subscription to National Geographic—a treasury of global wonders. Immersed in its pages, I and my indulgent uncle concocted grandiose plans, drafting letters to these affluent figures, pleading for meager funds to fuel my global wanderlust, inspired by the magazine's mesmerizing landscapes.

One such plea, meticulously penned on an aerogram, a princely expense of Rs. 5 in those days, was dispatched to Mr. Abdul Rehman Bukhatir, the cricket luminary of Sharjah. Yet, whether it reached him remains a mystery, for no riches ever graced my doorstep! Despite this setback, I nurtured fantasies of reincarnation as an Arab sheikh, steeped in wealth.

Though rebirth eludes me, fate intervened today as I stumbled upon an AI-generated depiction, sparked by a friend's Facebook post, portraying me as an Arab sheikh. Hence, let me present to you: Mr. Nagesh Bin Badal Bin Barsat Bin Paisa Gareeb Hindustani!”

Reflections in Polish : A Soleful journey in Life’s Shine

 In the contemplative act of shoe polishing, I find profound parallels with life's journey. Regardless of how weathered one may be, there's always a chance for revitalization, a renewal akin to transforming worn shoes into a resplendent state. To me, dirt is but a fleeting inconvenience, for the enduring brilliance of a well-polished shoe resonates eternally.

My approach to shoe care has evolved beyond mere buffing and waxing. It now involves a meticulous

process of cleaning, moisturizing, conditioning, polishing, and finally, waxing. Admittedly, this may sound somewhat quaint, yet I maintain that the quality of a polished shoe reflects the discipline and organizational prowess within the wearer's mind. Shoes may traverse miles, but they inevitably narrate one's story.

In the bygone days of youth, our drill masters demanded a mirror finish on our shoes as a litmus test for our polishing endeavors. Today, the landscape has shifted, with professional shoe polishing services offered at a princely sum. Nonetheless, the satisfaction derived from restoring my son's NCC shoes to a near mirror finish last evening surpassed the convenience of such services.

The transformation from muddy disarray to immaculate brilliance was a sight to behold. Witnessing the gleam on my son's face mirrored the joy within me. Yet, my contentment would soar even higher if he were to embrace this seemingly mundane skill, elevating it to an art form. For in the subtle truth encapsulated by the adage "Your Shoes, Your Signature," lies the essence of a refined character, a story told by the well-polished soles that tread life's varied paths.